The Nine Drabbles
by Lilan
Summary: A collection of drabbles written for a dear friend who was having a very busy time at work. Enjoy them again, Cressida!
1. Offguard

**Off-guard**

For a week now, little Faramir has been drawing cats.

'Father, look! I have a new kitty!'

'Very well, son,' I say as I finish writing.

'Can I keep it in my room, Father? Please!'

Oh, so it is a new game. Well, I am not too old to play it.

'Certainly, Faramir.'

I hear him give a little gasp of delight. 'Thank you, Father!'

Wait…what was that sound? A _miaow_??

I finally look at my son, only to see him holding a fat black kitten. A _real_ one.

Apparently, I _am_ too old…

Leastways, it is my favourite colour.


	2. Fealty with Love

'**Fealty with Love…'**

Today, my youngest spoke the words of his oath to Gondor and me, her Steward; now he and I are sitting at the table sharing a dinner. Boromir, who had come for the ceremony, excused himself early, for he was weary after his ride home.

Faramir is still very solemn; he has barely touched the food or spoke. Then, suddenly, he kneels before me again.

'I shall always love our City, Father,' he whispers. 'Until my last breath.'

'I know that, son,' I answer softly, my hand on his bowed dark head.

_And I know it will return your love._


	3. Respite

**Respite**

Another battle is over. I sit under a tree, the rough bark against my back. I like the feeling. 'Tis better than lying on soft grass and _not_ feeling its softness…

I watch my Rangers. Damrod is pulling off a boot. Anborn is chewing on a blade of grass. Mablung is standing stripped to his waist, shaking head at a slash in his gear. Andir, the youngest of us all, is splashing water into his face, sending the droplets flying around.

Today, we have lost none.

The gentle breeze cools my flushed face. Aye, I like to be alive too.


	4. Homecoming

**Homecoming**

'…I am glad to say that we did not lose one Ranger.'

'And the wounded?'

'Nine. Three of them, I have brought to the City with me and left in the care of the healers.'

'Good.'

Denethor watches Faramir intently for a long while and says, 'I suggest one more Ranger is sent to the healers.'

His fingers gently take hold of his son's left forearm and roll up the sleeve, revealing a makeshift bandage underneath.

'If you wish so, Father,' Faramir says with a smile.

'Yes, I wish that indeed, my son,' the Steward answers, smoothing the sleeve back.


	5. Night

**Night**

When the night falls in Minas Tirith, it covers the grievous scars the day before brought.

It lightly touches the face of a warrior who was not born such; gently, like a mother he does not remember, it smoothes the cares from his fair brow; with its faint breeze, it brings sweet fragrance of the distant woods to make his breath easy and even; it caresses his heavy eyelids to give him the slumber he so needs.

_Sleep well, my young captain,_ it whispers inaudibly. _Take the little time you are granted this night._

_For tomorrow's need will be sterner._


	6. Fool's Hope

**Fool's Hope**

No one sleeps in Minas Tirith in the night that the Enemy cast upon it.

Soldiers fight desperately out of the protection of strong walls of home, archers let their arrows fly, and a foolish wizard tries to battle the invincible. All shall perish soon.

I watch over your still form in bed, and the last wisps of the fool's hope are fading…

But stay I will, cherishing another fool's hope that you may yet speak to me.

Was it what I said that hurt you most, or what I did not say?

I shall never know that, my child.


	7. Hands

**Hands**

They said they saw hands there.

Faramir did not see anything in the now dull palantir which did not even allow the sunlight reflect off it.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw. Not in the Stone, though. With his mind's eye, he saw a figure bent over the bed… a pair of eyes, hollow, yet filled with pain.

There were hands, too. Old hands, one holding one of his own, the other stroking it gently.

A tear splashed onto the smooth surface, catching a ray of light which painted a tiny rainbow on it.


	8. Welcome

**Welcome**

Faramir thought he had rarely seen the young noblewomen of Gondor so animated.

Just as the men had shed their military gear, the women had firmly banished the dull grey and brown from their garments. There they stood, radiating beauty and warmth, laughing at something his wife was telling them. One of the ladies had her arm around Éowyn's waist.

Someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder. That was the old lady Niriel, the sharpest tongue in the whole of Gondor. Faramir wondered what biting remark he was to hear.

However, she smiled, saying, 'You found yourself a fine wife.'


	9. Visit

**Visit**

'Faramir… tell me, did you have to bind your own wife's eyes?'

Éowyn does her best to sound angered, but I know her well enough to hear a giggle approaching.

'Patience, my love,' I say, leading her forward.

As the sun starts to turn the ever-falling water into a veil of the finest, countless sparkling gems, I unwind the scarf from her head.

'Ohhh!' I hear, and she draws closer to me.

'Nay, I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, Faramir,' she says with a mischievous smile as the light fades, and adds, 'I would much rather be a Ranger.'


End file.
